She could not ignore the stark reality of her position on a failing farm. She had no future at Hazelmead, however hard she worked. The place deserved an owner who believed in it. Could she continue to juggle her life to keep the income trickling in? Trying to fit in the liveries, teaching, backing horses, and then long nights of pub work and waitressing? Maybe she should resort to a nine-to-five office job, become a weekend rider? That wasn’t her. Despite the long, often dirty and wet hours, horses ruled.
The rich guy who would give her everything she desired was a pipedream. Better her simple existence, however wet and cold it could be. Wealth and prestige scared her anyway. She told herself Gilles wasn’t the man of her dreams; he was pretentious and would make too many demands.
There were too many unknowns, as well as her shortcomings, which would always count against her. Serious employers would never take on a head groom with no license to drive a large horsebox, and they could misunderstand her dependence on medication. Even her sport had restrictions on the use of insulin, although her medical card, worn on her arm while competing, should inform any paramedics that she had diabetes.
Gilles would never relate; his expectations and presumptions were too high. He would never understand that she had to measure her sugar levels before and after exertion.
Far simpler to say no and let him go. She might see him at events, but no more than that. As she slipped into bed, it was clear: Hazelmead was home.
NINE
Carly sat on Torc and gazed across the patchwork quilt of greens and browns that melted into the haze of the distant downs. The musky sweat of other stamping horses stirred her. Their riders tried to keep warm as breath misted in the cold, and the chomp of bits and the creak of saddles filled the air. Just below in the copse at the slope’s end, hounds were working, the Huntsman drawing yet another covert.
Then a shout came as a fox broke from the trees. The hounds gave throat, music to the ear. Brown, black, and white shapes poured through the undergrowth as the Huntsman’s horn echoed.
Then the field moved off, gathering pace as the hounds streamed out in pursuit of the quarry. Hooves beating rhythm as the first obstacle loomed, Carly and Torc found their line and leapt the hedge, clearing the ditch behind. The speed continued to build towards the next obstacle, and Carly checked Torc’s power and loosed it, sailing over, their mutual excitement building.
Others had fallen, their skill not matching their recklessness, and some followed more cautiously as the hounds kept hunting and the fox kept drawing them on.
Their route twisted and turned towards a road snaking away to where fingers of urban growth encroached into the rural quilt.
They slowed to a walk as they approached a gate opening onto the road. Carly saw crowds of people jeering, placards, and blue lights. Words of abuse preceded figures breaking from the throng, rushing into the next field, flailing at horses while avoiding whips; but the riders moved off again.
She focused and concentrated on the jumping, the exhilaration rising inside. The countryside was rushing by with the wind. Hooves and heart pounded as the baying of the pack stirred her blood. This sensation was the thrill of the chase; an urge, natural, uncontrollable, although checked from being wild. A primal need to hunt down prey, to feed, and to live.
They had now closed on the Huntsman and the hounds. The figure was in sight, determined and cunning, looking for an escape. It needed to lose them and dodged from side to side, then disappeared down a culvert.
Had it outwitted them? There was a long pause as the hounds worked, seeking scent. Human eyes were watching, as they waited.
Then, the hounds spotted a glimmer of red diving for sanctuary in a covert and the cry went up. The pursuit continued, and the wood held no escape; that bolt-hole had been blocked hours before. There was only time for one final ploy.
The shape broke from cover. It sensed the hounds closing. Its fear was growing, and limbs were tired. Panic had set in. It twisted and swerved in vain.
And then it turned and confronted the pursuers.
Carly was terrified and felt guilty. The quarry was calm and still, tall and indistinct. Legs apart, arms at its side. The hounds moved so slowly, leaping towards the figure as it raised a long shaft, levelled straight at her.
Before she could understand how the fox had become a man with a gun, a flash of light pierced her, and she tumbled down with Torc into the mire. Lying in a heap, she tried to lift the mare’s head out of the mist that swirled around them. She struggled, unable to feel her own limbs. Scarlet spume spattered across white. She clutched at the threads keeping her conscious, but a presence fought to deny Carly of her life.
*
She jerked awake from her nightmare, shivering, sweat pouring, and heart pumping. Her head swam, and she grappled for some focus in the darkness of an unfamiliar room. She could hear a distant, wailing call outside, totally unlike Hazelmead’s soothing sounds. She heard horses, and she regained some of her shattered senses, but her head throbbed.
She scrabbled at the bedside table for the blood glucose tester; too low. She fumbled for some dextrose tablets, chewed them, and then devoured two bananas with a glass of orange juice.
Awareness stirred. This was Fenburgh Stud, and her new home. Hazelmead was a part of the past now. Although the eerie cry had faded, the nightmare echoed, and she stumbled over its significance. Did it mean anything? Why was she the prey? Who was the hunter, and would she regret changing jobs? Did her mind perceive a threat to her organic ideals from Fenburgh’s GM connection? It was more likely the ease with which Gilles had seduced her.
That had freaked her out. At least she had resisted calling Gilles until her friends had persuaded her that Fenburgh was a job to die for.
Before she could dwell on her paranoia, Guinness bounced her out of bed. She had another day of acclimatisation ahead, so she showered and dressed. She re-checked her levels and injected the first of her two daily doses of insulin before heading down for breakfast.
“Hola Carly. Sleep okay? You'll need it today. Plenty to do, but Armand will help, as you know. He’s a real amigo.”
“Slept a bit restless but good enough. Just—”
“—Strange new place, strange sounds,” said Lina, adding, “after a hectic move.”
It made sense—all her friends were left behind at Hazelmead. Gilles had collected her, the two horses, Guinness, and her life’s possessions on Thursday from the event at Tweseldown, where Carly had needed to do the Open Intermediate class on Torc. Her third place should have impressed him. From there, it had been a quick turnaround to get Gilles’s four rides ready for his local event at the weekend. Luckily, he had not blamed her grooming when he had failed to get a single prize on them.
For Carly, it had been an intensive introduction to her job, with a dozen horses in her charge, even though Armand's help and guidance had been invaluable. Sharing a cottage with the stud’s nutritionist, Lina was a bonus, which made the move so much easier. She realised that it was time to build a new friendship while learning what made Fenburgh life run smoothly.
Lina glanced at her watch, “Time to leave. The horses will get restless.”
“Like our boys.” Carly pointed to where their dogs were both standing by the back door. She grabbed her jacket as Lina let them out. “So, what is he, wolf or a—?”
“Czechoslovakian Wolfdog. Armand gave him to me, as my protector.”
Carly had to ask, “So you’re both... sort of...”
Lina laughed. “Nah. He’s sweet, but just a friend. I sometimes wish he wasn’t so shy.”
Carly said, “Perhaps he needs encouragement, unlike Gilles.”
*
Carly’s head was awash with information. She had questions, but Gilles had been determined to give her the full tour of his domain. Probing was unnecessary, as she was sure Lina would have more exact answers for her later.
Armand had offered to muck out the rest of the boxes, insisting on Carly going home, as
he was aware of how many horses she had ridden, not all with Gilles’s help. He had his favourites to ride, mainly his stallion, Drac. The others were ignored, like the two unproven youngsters that were called Huginn and Muninn. Armand insisted this was normal, so another day of mucking out boxes didn’t matter. Was he as trapped in his drudgery as she had been at Hazelmead? And again, when they spoke, there was that sadness in his eyes. As Gilles was the alpha male, she wondered why Armand was called Loup, the wolf.
Lina was busy at her laptop on the kitchen table when Carly walked in. The running suit suggested she would be a match for Carly in the exercise stakes; pretty necessary if she was to keep her dog so fit. Mistico was sitting patiently by the door, a snow-white watcher studying his new houseguests. Guinness’s black body quivered, tail wagging.
“Sorry I didn’t get back for lunch. Gilles had me riding all day and insisted on lunch.”
“En el palacio?” She registered Carly’s nod and said, “He’s real serious. Watch out...”
“...said he had too much to tell me so—”
“—that’s how it starts. Not that I minded.” She caught Carly’s look. “Don’t worry; ours was a stupid fling. I can’t let such feelings cloud my work, so it’s over, he’s all yours if you can hang on to him.”
“That bad?”
“He’s not the Flying Canuck for nothing. Good at flying changes and not just the dressage moves.”
“I appreciate the warning, but he’s as expected. Thanks, though. Not that I’m ready to get involved.”
“Loup, though, is entirely the opposite.”
Carly grabbed at the opening. “So why that nickname? Not a Gilles joke, I hope.”
“No, it’s the wolf pendant he wears. And he was so alone when we met him, trapped by books. Now he's a little better, but still our intellectual.”
Carly remembered noting the pendant, on a chain with some old ring. The nickname was appropriate to him as a lone wolf lost in his sadness, but had someone rejected him, or was this a self-imposed exile?
TEN
The night crept into the attic room on moonbeams that explored the patterns in the rug. Cries of nocturnal inhabitants gave Armand some companionship and reassurance that all was well. Now engrossed in the environmental assessment, he had perspective on his suspicions, and he was grateful to Carly for freeing him from his old chores. Approval for the scheme to re-use much of their grey water and to compost the manure was his next hurdle, although a minor one.
Gilles would agree to anything Carly suggested, especially as she was resisting his advances. She had used this to get him to accept a new stable name for Sorcière even though the mare was still proving to be Gilles’s nemesis. Carly had beaten him again at the weekend’s show-jumping event.
On Sunday, she had asked Gilles, “Why are you always calling her that name? No wonder you can’t get an understanding with her.”
“Guys here had trouble saying her French name, so it’s Witch as she can be one.”
“That’s mean. I find her real magic, bewitching. Okay, sometimes she seems to be dreaming, or her mind’s wandering, but I’d call her Wanda, like a witch’s wand.”
Now Gilles was calling her Scheming Wanda; maybe that was the only plot stirring at Fenburgh.
A diesel engine broke the illusion. Armand turned off the lights and went to the window, night binoculars at hand. Old habits die hard, even if spying on others felt wrong, but with suspicions gnawing at his mind, he needed to know more. If he was better prepared, he could protect without failing again, so any detail noted might save a life.
The silver Jeep Compass Sport+ slid around the house, heading for Lina and Carly’s cottage. As the security lights flickered on, Armand registered the personalised registration plate; someone with money or out to make an impression.
He hoped the dogs would be deterrent enough, but he was prepared for a possible confrontation. The Jeep stopped outside the garden gate, and a short-haired blond man stepped out, the lights sparkling on his polished leather boots. The trousers, waxed jacket, designer stubble and smooth smile said salesman, but at this hour?
I've seen him before. Not here—at The High Rocks dance.
The dogs barked furiously, but the salesman walked up the path. The cottage door opened and Guinness leapt out, only to be called back by Carly. She greeted the visitor with kisses to the cheeks then showed him inside.
Guinness stopped barking, but the hair rose along his hunched spine, and his teeth glinted. The flatcoat seemed to share Armand’s suspicions, even if Carly had danced with the man.
ELEVEN
Once the horses had their morning feed, Carly dropped in to see Lina. The ultra-modern office and the high-tech lab had sparked off Carly’s questions, and Lina was ever the obliging friend.
“Not definitive proof, but it was enough to end that phase of the GM trials.”
“So, instead you’re exploring this new regime?”
“Exactamente. I gave Roman everything I could. Everything to show there was no benefit to his horses at Du Noroît—”
“So, the trials ended there? And here?” asked Carly, praying for closure.
“Here, the strategy is my choice and Gilles can make it work. Concentrate on the horses, and nothing will go wrong.”
“It’s just like, so weird. My research project back in college and now here. Plus, you guys are making that move away from GM, which is great. So, you convinced Gilles this is the correct direction for Boissard Équestre?”
Lina stroked Mistico, who was snoring quietly beside her in a duet with Guinness. “It was easy. I have ways with Gilles. Just trust me, I know the way he operates when it comes to the family business.”
“Ah ha, so it was more than a fling then.”
The hum of computers filled the pause. Had she pushed too hard?
But Lina said, “We were students, which gave me time to understand him. But Gilles is straightforward—if everything falls into place.”
The team dynamics seemed to be growing more complicated, but Lina was an invaluable guide.
“So, what should I do about Gilles? He’s the boss and...very persuasive.”
“Playing games is his style. Just concentrate on the horses. On my side, he wants this feed change, especially as his father hates our regime. But Fenburgh is not Roman’s. We’ve started re-building here, despite him.”
“And Loup supports you, I know. It fits his work and–”
“—He listens to you. Perfecto. Perhaps you fancy him, instead of Gilles?”
“No way. Although Loup’s sweet.” Carly didn’t see Armand in that way, although an intellectual didn’t worry her; but the work was the priority, as Lina told her.
“Vamos, we must find them now.”
The dogs sensed this decision involved them and led the way to the door. Lina locked the one to her lab and set the alarm.
Gilles and Armand were standing beside the manure heap. “...Mick’s the new rep for Vidarranj, but it’s a bit odd, his visiting so late,” said Gilles.
His words drifted over on a green mist, and his presumption riled Carly. “Lina, I think we have two jealous guys...”
“...who we didn’t invite to last night’s party. Trágico!”
The boys’ expressions, imitating gasping fish, invited more bait. “A dishy lover you didn’t know about.”
“Carly’s, as she danced with him, except Lina orders our supplements,” said Gilles. “Why wasn't I told either way?”
“Mick’s just a friend from Kent that goes way back.”
A string of horses and jockeys went past, and Gilles pretended to study the mounts and nodded at their lads. He was perplexed, and the accusation was as inevitable and sharp as frost. “He’s your...you conned me, played with me, just for the job.”
“Why not? If he’s not my boyfriend, then what?” She walked towards the yard, where she had pressing work.
“Please, Vix. You’re not serious. This is a wind-up. You mean so much�
��well, to Fenburgh.”
“Don’t worry Gilles, it’s over...” she paused to play with his feelings, his chosen game, “...between Mick and me. There’s only one guy now.”
She could hear him behind her, his breath a breeze stirring her hair. She was ready to turn and kiss him; except not this way, and not here. “I meant Guinness, sorry. Look, Mick heard I was here and just brought me a present for my birthday next Saturday. That’s all. Anyhow, everyone knows Mick! Time I did some work.”
“Okay whatever, Vix. Let’s all celebrate your birthday—a foursome. Armand, you book us a table somewhere real special.”
*
The drizzle had developed into a downpour that had sent Gilles and Lina off to discuss the progress of her feed regime inside. Armand was in his room updating his report, and only Carly had stayed outside exercising horses, saying, “They need the speed work and the field’s best for that with its all-weather track. I need them ready for the weekend.”
Remembering his outstanding task, Armand checked the restaurant details in his notebook and booked the table for Carly’s birthday celebration. However, he was more concerned about the salesman, her ex-boyfriend Mick Roper. Guinness was wary of him, and he worked for Vidarranj, one of the feed supplement companies that Boissard Équestre had dealt with in Canada, although Gilles had claimed he would stop dealing with the company in England.
Grabbing his laptop, Armand decided to go online, logging on via a non-commercial secure server in France. It had been a while, but his comrades would note his re-emergence. Searching for Vidarranj, he found their website, a straightforward marketing tool promoting their products. Mick must need Boissard Équestre back with his company.
Does Mick think he can use Carly as a lever to inveigle himself into the setup? Or is he already entrenched?
However, one glance at the range of products reassured Armand that Carly and Lina would have no use for them. Vidarranj was biotechnology at its most zealous, claiming to belong to an alliance tackling poverty and helping humanity through scientific advances.
Spiral of Hooves Page 5
